the grassy track that led downwards through the tall gum trees to the park, across it to the beach.
But once there he hesitated. Megan—and he’d known with an inner certainty it was her—had moved on so she was almost at the point. If he waited just a minute, she’d be out of sight.
As would he be of her…
He paused in the shadows until he could no longer see her then walked towards the water, which splashed with tiny, sloshing waves against the gritty sand. The tide must be going out, for the words she’d written hadn’t been washed away.
Megan Anstey, in beautiful curly cursive script. Meg’s hair might have darkened to a rich auburn, and her gangly figure filled out with womanhood, but her writing hadn’t changed.
He followed the big letters to the end and found that after them she’d written ‘Megan Scott’.
Megan Scott?
Sam frowned at the surname.
‘Megan Anstey’, written on the beach, used to be followed by ‘Megan Agostini’.
But that had been thirteen years ago!
Didn’t stop him frowning.
Was Megan married to this Scott, or just in love with him?
Engaged?
He didn’t need to know.
It was none of his business.
So why was he still following the writing?
‘Megan Anstey’ again.
Without knowing why, Sam felt immeasurably better, though the next name jolted him.
Not so much a name as the word ‘Megan’ then a question mark. Was there someone in Meg’s life she was thinking of marrying?
Why wouldn’t there be? She was young, attractive, vibrant, sexy—
Sexy?
Had he ever considered that word and Meg in the same breath?
‘Reading other people’s mail?’
He looked up to see her barely ten feet away, the sand having dulled any sound of her return.
‘Sand writing’s like postcards—fair game,’ he reminded her, staring at her shadowed figure and wondering if perhaps his ex-girlfriend had been right and he did have an excessively large load of baggage from the past.
He certainly felt as if he was carrying something heavy right now. Heavy enough to make his chest feel tight and his muscles bunch with tension.
‘Were you looking for me?’
For the last thirteen years, a voice inside his head responded, but he knew this wasn’t true. He’d thought of Meg from time to time, but—
‘No. I just wandered down for a breath of fresh air before going into the house to see what kind of a fist of unpacking the removal men have made. I paid for the whole job—packing and unpacking.’
This is a ridiculous conversation, his inner voice mocked, but Sam was surprised he’d managed an almost rational reply.
‘Money no object, then?’ Meg asked, in a voice he didn’t recognise as her’s. Meg had never been snide or catty but, then, that Meg had been a girl. Thirteen years was plenty of time to find a bit of snide and catty!
‘It was more a matter of time. I wasn’t due to start up here for another month, then I had an SOS from an old friend who was coming up as the medical super at the hospital. She couldn’t leave Brisbane and, knowing I was heading this way, asked if I’d step in for her.’
It was still a ridiculous conversation to be having with Meg, but at least it was keeping his mind away from thoughts of Meg the girl.
And the sand writing.
From Megan Question Mark?
Almost keeping his thoughts away…
‘You were coming anyway? When Bill said acting super I thought maybe you’d bought the house as a holiday home and were just here for however long you were acting.’
Meg knew she must sound strained, but she’d come to the beach in an attempt to regain her inner peace and composure—to try to get rid of all the turbulent emotions that seeing Sam—and knowing she’d be seeing more of him—had stirred inside her. Now, just when it had seemed to be working, here he was!
She studied him. Tall and strong-looking. He’d naturally enough filled out over the intervening years so his broad shoulders looked well muscled and his body solid—manly!
‘You were coming anyway?’ she said again, thinking she’d be better getting her mind off the subject of Sam’s body.
‘I was coming anyway,’ he echoed, but there was such sadness in the words Meg stepped towards him, responding to some inexplicable need within her—or within him.
‘Sam?’ she murmured, and he leaned towards her.
The waves whispered softly on the sand, the early stars shed soft silver light about them, and Sam’s head bent towards hers, slowly, slowly, as if willed by something beyond his control—something that went against his wishes and judgement and common sense.
A barely heard ‘Meg…’
The kiss was soft at first—tentative, testing—and the taste of Sam was both new and yet familiar. Too new and too familiar for Meg not to respond—tentatively testing for herself. It was a kiss that both sought and gave her comfort, though comfort was far from the other reactions it was generating.
Need, desire, heat—all the reactions Sam’s kisses had generated in the adolescent Megan long ago—not diminished by time, but heightened and strengthened by the maturity of her body and the very obvious maturity of his.
Or was it his skill as a kisser that was changing her response? Skill and mastery that seemed to be drawing the very soul from her body and sweeping away any will to resist.
This was the kiss of her dreams but with a real Sam, not a fantasy, yet fantasy was there as well and she was sixteen again, kissing the teenage Sam who was soon to become her lover…
‘Meg,’ he repeated softly, and though his voice seemed to be coming from a far distant planet, enough of her name reached her to make her draw away.
As she moved, the spell was broken. She stared at him in disbelief—disbelief levelled at herself, not him.
Then very deliberately she wiped her hand across her lips and said, ‘Don’t you ever do that to me again!’
Would he remember? she wondered as, with tears puddling in her eyes and agony tugging at her heart, she walked away from him.
‘Megan, wait! Meg, I can explain!’
His voice followed her, but she wasn’t going to stop. Wasn’t going to risk being caught in that web of sensuality he wove so effortlessly around her—not again.
Would he remember his own gesture—his own words—from all those years ago?
She doubted it, and somehow that thought made her blink back the tears and straighten her shoulders as she crossed the park, determined not to show Sam Agostini her pain.
Sam watched her go, remembering back to when he’d given Meg good reason to write ‘Megan Agostini’ in the sand.
Meg at sixteen, arriving for the Christmas holidays thirteen years ago, flying from her house to the cottage, in through the side door and into his bedroom, casting herself into his arms and kissing him full on the mouth.
Over the previous three holidays—Easter, June and September—their relationship had changed. Somewhere along the line Meg had grown breasts and put a little padding around her hips so they swelled gently out below her tiny waist. While looking at her legs, he’d seen not their paleness but their sexy